Although the low stone outlines of Anasazi buildings stretched across the entire floor of the valley, the university team concentrated on only one small section at a time. Last year, the students had been digging at the north end of the tiny valley, near the meadow, but this year it sounded as though they had given up on that idea and were trying to look for artifacts on the heavily forested south end.

Billy and Lane were at the site almost before realizing it, and they quickly stopped at the edge of the small clearing. Folding tables and chairs had been set up underneath various trees, and on them were piled books and boxes and assorted work tools. The carpet of brown pine needles that ordinarily covered the ground had been cleared and flat bare dirt shone through, broken in spots by square shallow excavation holes. Bright-blue and red tents were set up about the area, though not enough for everyone to sleep in. The students themselves were grouped around their professor, a balding middle-aged man with an Abe Lincoln beard and a prospector’s tan.

The boys parked their bikes in the bushes and walked slowly and shyly forward. A few of the students’ faces were familiar from last year, but most of them were new and Billy and Lane weren’t sure what kind of reaction they were going to get.

The eyes of the men and women shifted focus from the professor to the two boys trekking across the rough ground. The professor turned to see the new center of attention, and a smile of recognition crossed his face. “I was wondering when you were going to show up,” he said. His voice was cracked and hoarse. “Ready to work?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Lane said.

The professor laughed. “Glad to have you aboard. I’m sure we’ll be able to find something for you to do.” He turned to face his class. “Those of you who are new to our extension course, meet Lane…”

“Chapman,” Lane prompted.

“And Billy…”

“Albin.”

“Right.” The professor was about to add something else when his attention was drawn to the other end of the clearing. Pressing forward, Billy followed his gaze. He saw movement in the underbrush. A man. A man with a blue uniform and a thin white face.

And bright red hair.

The mailman stepped into the clearing from the other end. He had obviously been walking through the trees and bushes all the way from the control road, which cut across the valley at its southern tip, but his postal uniform was free from all traces of dirt, there were no small dead leaves or branches in his hat, and the gold buttons on his jacket shone brightly, unscratched. He held in his hand a single envelope.

“Dr. Dennis Holman?” he asked in his smooth low voice.

The professor nodded.